


No Light, No Light

by Sjukdom



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: AU, Dubious Consent, Heavy Angst, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 19:57:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5018317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sjukdom/pseuds/Sjukdom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU, where Jim is a singer and Oswald is a fan, visiting his concert for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Light, No Light

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, English is not my native language, so feel free to tell me about any mistakes. I honestly don't know, why this stuff came out to be so depressing, but here it is.

It was only a small room behind the scene, narrow and nearly empty. It reminded Oswald of a hearse. The room smelled of dust and beer, spilled and thrown up here by many people before them. Who knows, maybe these people had been up to the same thing they were tonight? The place was disgusting, but for Oswald it was going to be a sanctuary, a temple. Jim led him there, gesturing to him to keep quiet. Oswald followed him, dazed and numb, being not able to decide whether he was happy or not. He should have been. Jim's scent was intoxicating, was stronger than all the odour in here. Oswald breathed it in, amazed at the fact that he smelled just like he had always imagined. Sweat and cigarettes, yes, but there was something else, something like the smell of cherry tree's bark. Jim had a song under this title and Oswald knew it by heart. He knew by heart every Jim's song.

Oswald had been on the concert Jim and his band gave tonight in the small club, decorated with posters with printed fish skeleton on them. It seemed that Oswald had been waiting for this concert all his life. He was jealous with people, who visited Jim's concerts in other cities and sorry for himself for not having enough money to go there. He barely found money to buy a ticket to this concert in his hometown. It was more than real that he would have nothing to eat in the upcoming month, but he wouldn't have forgiven himself for not going there. To Jim's concert – to the man who stared at him day and night from all posters Oswald hung on the walls of his room. The man, whose voice whispered and screamed in his ears, why Oswald laid on his old creaky bed with closed eyes, singing along softly. The man who saved him from suicide twelve thousand and one times, who helped him to live and carry one, who proved Oswald was not alone. The man he fell in love with for the very first time in his life. The man whose name Oswald cut on his arms with a tiny razorblade. The man whom Oswald imagined while he was jerking off, dreaming of his hands touching him like they touched the strings of his guitar. When Oswald realized that Jim would come to play in this shitty town, he was hardly able not to go sobbing in the middle of the street in front of the promotional poster. He would see him alive for the first time. This concert was the thing to starve for, to work like mad for, to die for.

In the night of the concert Oswald dressed himself as best as he could, as if he was going for a date. And it was a date of some kind. He had even made a special t-shirt for this occasion, black with words written in white paint. Fuck me, Jim Gordon. And two pistols with crosses on them, the logo of Jim's band. Oswald drew them carefully and was rather pleased with the result. He knew that Jim would be pleased to see it, too.

They had so much in common, Jim and he. Every word, every syllable and sound of his songs echoed in Oswald's mind like they belonged to him. Oswald thought that he hadn't known the meaning of the word “soulmate” before he discovered Jim for himself. Tall blonde man with a slightly sad expression and voice of an angel with broken wings, covered with dust and humans' sins, a voice full of pain and longing. Oswald felt the same pain. Oswald understood Jim like no-one else could.

He came to the club early, determined to take a place in the first row. There was one, right in the middle, right in front of the microphone Jim would stand next soon, as if especially for him. Oswald reached out and touched the microphone's wire, trembling as if it was Jim's body he was touching, thinking about Jim's lips so close to the microphone. He always looked like he was kissing someone important to him. It was hot near the stage and Oswald unwrapped his scarf, revealing his self-made t-shirt. He waited and waited, petting the words from time to time absent-mindedly. Crowd gathered behind him, somebody's hands pushed him, but he paid no attention. Oswald could hear cheers and applause and stood still, staring at the stage until his eyes began to water. When lights went out and first musician stepped on the stage, Oswald held his breath, feeling dizzy. The crowd around screamed, when Jim walked to the microphone, his guitar hanging lifelessly from his shoulder, a little smile on his face. Oswald was afraid that he might faint and clung to the edge of the stage, gazing upwards. Jim took the first chord and began to sing, softly at first, then raising his voice to a desperate scream. Oswald always imagined that he would scream with him, but his throat was clenched tight and he could make no single sound. 

What's wrong with him? Jim was right in front of him, the real man of flesh and blood, not the picture on the wall or on the screen. Oswald could see the beads of sweat on his forehead and under his nose, the hair on his forearms, the outlines of his nipples under plain white shirt. He was burning to touch him to be sure that this was for real, but didn't dare, afraid of the illusion disappearing. Oswald could barely hear the music, but then it flooded on him like black waterfall and he began to repeat Jim's words mutely, not even moving his lips. Once or twice Oswald noticed that Jim glanced at him, at the writing on his chest and smiled a little. Oswald's heart was throbbing and his cheeks burning. His legs shook and he suddenly felt that his clothes were too tight for him. It took time for Oswald to realize that it was not only arousal, it was also fear. Such fear experienced a priest, throwing away his crucifix.

The concert seemed to last only a few minutes. Jim and his musicians were already leaving the stage and crowd behind Oswald began to dissolve. Oswald still didn't move. He tried to understand his feelings and couldn't. He felt nausea squeezing his stomach and thought if it had been right to put on this t-shirt. What if Jim was disgusted with the writing? What if he was a bit too pleased with it? Everything was like a dream. Oswald knew he would be late for the bus home and mother would be mad at him, but couldn't leave with other visitors. He must finish whatever he had come for. Somehow it felt right in all this wrongness. He wrapped his coat tighter around him, though he was sweating heavily and breathed so fast as if he was hyperventilating. Oswald waited for Jim again, not sure if he would be able to speak a single word to him, though he knew he should tell him everything about himself and how much Jim meant to him. But would he come to the hall? And if so, why? 

Why did he still waited, afraid and barely noticing the world around him?

Jim came and noticed Oswald, still standing near the stage. Jim's face was paler than usual and his short fair hair were a mess. Oswald watched him as he approached, not daring to breath. It was certainly a dream, a nightmare about greatest blasphemy in his life. Or maybe finally he cut his arm too deep and was now bleeding to death, seeing Jim next to him, so close, so horribly real.

“Nice shirt you have here”, said Jim, staring at him with his bright blue eyes, filled with sparkling white light. The club's headlights reflected in them. “You've made it yourself?”

Oswald nodded, his muteness growing only stronger instead of going away, if that was possible. He looked at Jim's face, every wrinkle and every shadow on it, until it was blurred. He knew this image would haunt him for the rest of his life.

“Come here”, said Jim softly and waved Oswald to follow him. Oswald quickly glanced back and saw other musicians at the bar, chatting with some girls. He paid them no attention. When they came into that hearse-like room, Jim closed the door behind them.

“You mean it?” asked Jim, nodding at the writing on Oswald's chest and touching his belt teasingly. It sounded half-heartedly, a thing to remind if something would go wrong. A thing to blame with. Oswald shuddered at the thought and nodded slowly, feeling that he had no choice anyway. He didn't even know how to do it anyway, he didn't now what it would be. He came closer to Jim, remembering something about kisses before and Jim pushed at his shoulder a little, making him go down on his knees. Oswald clung to his leg, feeling the rough texture of his jeans with his hot skin. 

“Unzip me”, told him Jim, petting his head lightly, like he was a small scared animal. Oswald obeyed, moving his fingers clumsily and released his cock, half-hard, covered with a net of blue veins under thin pink skin and with rather big head, glistening with drops of pre-cum. Jim squeezed his head, drawing him near his manhood and Oswald opened his mouth. The taste was not that bad, just a salty taste of skin and sweat. Oswald closed his lips around the cock and tried to move his tongue around it, finding a throbbing vein under its head. Jim moaned approvingly and laid his hand on the back of his head, making his cock go deeper in Oswald's throat. Oswald choked on it and coughed until his eyes were full of tears. Jim waited until he recovered and than shoved his cock in Oswald's throat again, telling him how to breath and relax his pharynx. Oswald sat in front of him, tense and shivering from time to time. It was hard to breath and he constantly reminded himself to hide his teeth. Jim moved his hips lightly, sliding in and out of Oswald's mouth. He went not too deep, but Oswald anyway was trying desperately to suppress his gag reflex. Jim's pubic hair tickled his face and his moans echoed between empty dusty walls. It was strange to feel Jim's cock getting harder upon his tongue, until he filled whole mouth. Jim's fingers dug deeper in Oswald's hair, his nails scratched the skin of his scalp. Oswald felt his saliva dripping from the corner of his mouth on his scarf. His throat already felt sore and floor under him began to irritate his knees.

Was it what he really wanted? It was, but Oswald imagined everything differently. More exciting. More loving and tender. Less painful. He must be more happier than he had ever been. He must think things like, I wish he sang while I'm sucking him off, not that his jaw felt numb, his eyes were watering and he might trow up anytime soon. Everything was wrong. Like all his life was a lie.

Jim took a deep breath and came, spilling his semen over Oswald's face and neck. He backed away, blinking and coughing, feeling drops of sperm running down his cheeks. Jim breathed again and began to dress, then pet Oswald's head again.

“Thanks. It was awesome”, said he, but didn't look Oswald in the eyes. Oswald tried to caught his glance, not even bothering with wiping his face. Jim's eyes were still bright and blue, but there was no light in them anymore.

“I might even write a song about it. What's your name, by the way?” asked Jim, obviously to cheer him up a little. Oswald mouthed his name and felt his heart go down, when Jim nodded, though he couldn't hear anything. Oswald's name was not important to him. Jim chunk him under his chin and left without glancing back. Oswald still sat on his knees, feeling like crying. 

He hoped it would make him the happiest man in the whole world. He hoped it would light everything up, but instead he felt that all the lights went out. Was it really his first time? Without love, without caress, without kisses, fast and meaningless to both of them? Jim wouldn't even remember him the next day. Maybe, he got blowjobs from fans in every city he came to. 

Maybe, it was for good if he really was bleeding to death right now.

Oswald got up from the dirty floor and headed for the cloak room to wash his face. He swayed and had to draw on the walls not to fall down. Everything was fading away around him, as if his blood was leaving his veins until there was only emptiness and darkness.

And no single light.


End file.
